


Behind The Curtain

by Jojo_Is_A_Hedgehog



Category: Call the Midwife
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Theatre, F/F, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-22
Updated: 2020-10-22
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:08:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27144286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jojo_Is_A_Hedgehog/pseuds/Jojo_Is_A_Hedgehog
Summary: Delia, a touring sound engineer, has been drawn back to London's glittering West End to help out a show having problems. But she has a history with the stage manager. What could possibly go wrong???
Relationships: Delia Busby/Patsy Mount
Comments: 17
Kudos: 39





	Behind The Curtain

**Author's Note:**

> So this was the first fic I ever started. I never intended to build my reputation on one-shots, this was supposed to be the first thing I posted on here but *shrugs*.
> 
> I can't promise quick progress on this one, I'm up to my eyeballs in a play I've been trying to write for the last four years, but this has been burning a hole in my laptop for two and half of those years, and I guess I'm missing my job right now so playing with this will be a nice bit of connection.
> 
> If I get too technical please let me know. Especially the brits, I think some of the American's have a slight advantage over us courtesy of the high school theatre kid thing.

Patsy Mount was, well, a little on edge.

"Where the fuck is Jenny?!"

Ok, on edge might have been a bit of an understatement. She threw the oil drums back onto their marks, and slammed home the pin that held the table in it's semi-toppled position, before reclaiming her mop.

A flustered slim brunette stepped lightly onto the stage, pushing her hair behind her ears and raising her hands in supplication as she approached the stage manager. "Look, Patsy, I'm..."

"If I have to do your preset one more time this week Jenny Lee..."

"Oh my god Patsy! I don't care what bug crawled up your arse, but unless you want someone else to quit before cast change you need to back the fuck off!"

The redhead watched her colleague stalk back the way she came and scurry up the ladder to the bank of video screens and buttons that made up her perch, the control centre for the show. She was ready to scream. Instead she kicked the table, hissing as the safety cap in her boot bit in to the top of her foot.

"I thought we tested the integrity of the set on Fridays kid?"

Patsy glared at the curly-haired older woman. Today was not a day for the Northerner to push her, but all she could do was glare.

"Look lass, I know you're a private person, but something has clearly been bothering you lately. Do you want to talk about it?"

The stage manager jammed her hands in to her hips, ready to rip into the chief electrician, but when she saw the look of sincere concern on the woman's face, she deflated. Rubbing her hands over her face, she took a deep cleansing breath, slipping her professional mask back into place. "Thank you Phyllis. But we've got a show to put on."

Phyllis sighed, but nodded. "You know where to find me, if you change your mind." 

—————————

So here she was again. Standing outside the stage door of the Nonnatus Theatre. It had only been a couple of years but she’d missed the place. Casting her eyes up the wall of the five-storey building, Delia smirked at the sight of her old safety boots, still stuck to the bricks outside the green room window. She was impressed. She never once thought the adhesive would last more than a week, though thinking about it now, being slightly more mature and all, she was concerned about the damage they’d do when they eventually fell. Perhaps it was time to get them down. 

The petite brunette took a deep breath to settle the butterflies in her belly, shouldered her rucksack and swinging her motorcycle helmet against her leg, took the six steps to the stage door. She grimaced at the sight of the new security pin pad. Great. Another code she’d have to try and remember. Ringing the bell she tried not to fidget.

“No-one’s home. Clear off you little bugger!” announced the tinny speaker box before the door buzzed. 

Grinning, she pushed through the door and dropped her bag in front of the stage door keepers window. “I’ve missed you too Fred!”

“Heeehey! Look at you gal!” The jolly grey-haired fella stepped out of his tiny office and swept her up into a bear hug. “Thought I’d mixed up a bunch of the old sign-in sheets when I spotted Delia Busby on there this morning! How you been my little taffy? I expect you’ll be wanting to see Julienne, shall I call her down?”

“Please.” She genuinely had missed the stage door keeper, he was old-school; kind, cheeky, and simply enjoyed being a small cog in the great machine that was the world of theatre.

He flopped back down into his chair and hunched over the microphone. “Company manager to stage door please, company manager to stage door.” The call echoed behind the security door to the rest of the building. Fred sat back and rubbed his hands briskly. “So are you joining this little shindig properly?”

“Only back for cast change, sorry,” she shrugged. “I’m just filling a gap until Dr Myra can find a sound operator she can trust to take care of her baby.”

“Well surely you fit the bill perfectly?” He crossed his arms watching her expectantly.

She shuffled uncomfortably under his scrutiny. “Can’t stay still for long me. The road’s already calling me back already I can tell you.”

“Properly caught the touring bug haven’t you gal. Mind you, can’t blame you after seeing the places you got sent to with that Thrupence show. Not too shabby!”

“Have you been Facebook stalking me Mr Buckle?” she teased.

“I might not have a clue how to use the damn thing, but I can at least look at the photos. You’ve been lucky mate.”

She grinned and nodded in agreement. Behind her, the security door clicked open.

“Delia Busby I presume?”

The woman in the doorway seemed to exude calmness and serenity. Unmistakably a company manager; counsellor, mediator, negotiator, and, well, mum, all rolled into one.

“That’s me”, Delia stepped forward, shaking the woman’s hand firmly. “You must be Julienne?”

“Welcome.” The older woman smiled warmly. “We’re so glad you could join us. Myra’s been bemoaning your lack of availability since we moved in here.”

“Doesn’t surprise me, she’s been trying to get me to ditch Thrupence for over a year.”

“I’m sure,” Julienne grinned, stepping aside. “Shall we?”

Delia scooped up her gear and eagerly followed the woman.

“‘Ere Busby!”

She turned back to the stage door keeper, eyebrows raised.

“If you fancy the exercise, make sure you head up to wardrobe and say hello to Vi, she’d love to see you!”

“Can’t believe you’re still making your wife climb all the way to the top floor Fred! Honestly, I was sure you’d have bodged a lift into this place by now!”

His chuckles followed her around the corner to the stairwell, but as she followed Julienne down to stage level her stomach began to tighten and her palms sweat. For God’s sake Busby, pull yourself together. Just be professional!

“I gather you’re at an advantage, already knowing the venue?” Julienne interrupted her self-chastisement.

“You could say we have a passing acquaintance,” Delia smiled.

Julienne stopped in the little foyer area that Delia had semi-lived in the last time she was here, though it was devoid of radio racks and microphone station she’d painstakingly maintained way back when.

“In that case, rather than simply welcome, in a way I suppose this is welcome home.” She swept open the door to the stage.

It looked nothing like Delia remembered. Which was of course the point. Gone was the cheesey, bright and overly-energetic musical that had brought her to London’s West End before. This musical, or rather play with music, was dark and gritty. Rust with hints of silver. Mismatched furniture of visually questionable integrity and battered oil drums were strewn haphazardly about the stage. Practically post-apocalyptic. 

And _Hit Me Baby, One More Time_ was playing through the sound system. 

Crap. 

That meant _she_ was definitely in the space. But glancing around she couldn’t see the short asymmetric blonde bob that she used to greatly enjoy running her fingers through.

“Revolve moving.” 

And there it was. The clipped RP accent sent a shiver down her spine.

“Revolve moving!” 

Oh God this was going to be just as difficult as she’d imagined. 

“Winifred seriously get off the revolve!”

A nervous looking girl with strawberry blonde frizz leapt aside as the centre of the stage began to turn, while a tall and imposing figure all in black rode the moving floor piece. 

Oh. 

She’d grown her hair out. 

And she’d dyed it bright red. 

Delia felt her stomach clench. 

Shit.


End file.
